Archives for category: Poetry

Note: I posted this a while ago (actually May 30, 2012), but then I unpublished it because it made some people I know in real-life nervous. I’m publishing this again because it’s National Poetry Month, and, frankly, because I can. I’ve spent the last few years making apologies for my DNA-level desire to write. I don’t want to do that anymore. I don’t think this is the best poem ever written, but it’s mine. It’s a part of me. And I like it.

 

1. If I had a knife,
I’d slice those words out of your throat.
I’d be careful; the cut would be clean.

2. If fucking up is a privilege,
Then it’s a privilege I’ll take.
I’ll make a giant mess.
I’ll leave footprints in the flour.

3. I’m scrawling this on a wall.
I don’t have time to be civilized.
If I were you, I’d be easy right now.
I grow wilder every day.

I’d like to become more like an animal.

I want to live in scents, in hunches, in pheromones.

In a kind of perma-knowing.  An ingrained understanding.

I want to sniff the breeze.

I want to draw blood.

I want to know, that I know, that I know, that I know.

When a black woman loves you,
You are one lucky sonofabitch.

Because our love is heavy
Like molasses.
It coats you
And girds you up.

When a black woman loves you
She loves your spine,
Your skin.
What you do to her insides.

She could give you life
and rhythm,
If you’d let her.

A sweetness
A pain
A loss of control
An oncoming train
An approaching fire
A seizure
A gasp
A deep, bubbling flood.

Let’s admit
that things have gotten messy
complicated
that we’ve come to the end of the road.

Let’s admit that superman, batman, the green hornet and aquaman
were just lines on a page
actors on a screen.

Let’s admit that our biggest, strongest white man can’t save us.
That the cowboy, the pilgrim, the pull-up-by-your-bootstraps businessman
were hobbled by thier own racism
drunk on thier limited vision.

True love is a messy love.
I’m only telling you this because I care.
Let’s admit that this isn’t working,
let’s call our minds to do new things.

Little boy,
there is no difference in the anger that bubbles in your small chest
and what burns like fire in mine.
We are the same
made helpless
awash in emotion
and I’m in charge
so I should know better.

I worry a lot about your soul
Where it came from
and how to keep it pure.

I am trying so hard to keep my hands away from you,
to end the way our souls have been broken.
What a different word we’d live in, maybe,
if there was some other way
if pain wasn’t bragged on
if we’d look somewhere else.

Boy,
your grandmother is wrong.
Your mother is wrong.
This maze we fall into is confounding.

A million universes explode
And fold over onto themselves
You are a world
A force
I writhe in your wake
My lust makes me dumb
And slippery with sweat
I’m as open as I can be
All desire and swelling and rhythmic
Pulsing
I’m willing to sin for you